Setting the Stage for Murder
Page 33
“Why do think he decided to confess?” Kevin asked. “I thought you could have had a hard time making a murder charge stick.”
“I’m not sure I know what was going on in his mind,” Carol said. “But my impression is that he had begun to feel remorse about his wife. And I don’t mean he only regretted how he’d treated her, or his role in her death. I think he was consumed with self-hatred. And then that hatred got transferred to Gerlach. Arthur had killed the wrong person, and he had to make it right by killing the one who really deserved to die. Somehow in the end he had simply lost the will to rationalize what he had done. He was tired. He just gave up.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“It’s out of my hands,” Carol said, and she sounded relieved to say so. “They may be discussing a plea right now. He faces jail, but I can’t say what the charge will be—murder one, murder two, I just don’t know. Nor do I know what the sentence will be. The only thing I know for sure is that his life has been ruined.”
“So there won’t be a big trial like there was last year in the Rackley case. Which means that Jason Armitage will be disappointed. He’ll have to stay focused on being the provost of Brae Loch College rather than sneak off to the courtroom to get his crime and punishment fix.”
It was, they agreed, an unexpected ending to Crooked Lake’s latest murder case.
_____
Labor Day weekend. The end of the summer for many area residents, including Kevin Whitman. He was due back for the first day of classes at Madison College on Tuesday. Already he was feeling an anticipatory emptiness, settling back into his city apartment while Carol was hundreds of miles away. He had promised her that he would come back to the lake for a long weekend as soon as he had met his classes for the first time, but that would hardly compensate for the many months when they would be living separate lives.
The Festival of Lights would give them one final opportunity to share the lake and the cottage before he headed for the city. The previous summer, at Kevin’s suggestion, Carol had used the July Fourth version of this tradition to try to trap Sandra Rackley’s killer. This time they would share the occasion, placing flares along Kevin’s beach and enjoying the spectacle of miles of lake shoreline glowing red in the dark of an early September evening.
After a simple supper, Kevin brought an armload of seasoned logs down to the beach and started a fire. In a matter of minutes the logs were burning brightly and sending tiny sparks into the night sky. At precisely nine o’clock, he lit his flares. They watched as neighbors and residents on the bluff across the lake did likewise. Kevin closed his eyes, imagining a similar sight in a far-off time when their Native American forebears celebrated the harvest season.
“Hey, let’s take a look at this from the canoe,” Carol said.
“Why not?” Kevin liked the idea. “Let me get that lantern on the deck.”
Three minutes later, the lantern between them, they shoved off from the beach and were soon drifting along some twenty yards offshore.
“I love it, don’t you?” Carol said.
“Especially when I can share it with you.”
“You know, Kevin, I’ve been so caught up in the Gerlach case that I don’t think I ever really told you how sorry I am that you didn’t get a chance to put on your opera.”
“Yes you did. I just didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Anyway, it had to be a terrible disappointment. You’ve been a good sport about it. Have you given any thought to doing it another summer?”
Kevin chuckled.
“No way. I doubt the powers that be at Brae Loch would let me within a mile of the place. Besides, I learned quite a bit about myself this summer. What was it you called me? An impresario? Well, I’m no impresario. I don’t think I’m a very good conductor either. No, I think I’ll stick to teaching.”
“And sleuthing,” Carol added.
They paddled quietly, parallel to the shoreline, enjoying the flares and the occasional beach fire.
“You haven’t forgotten that you’re coming back next weekend, have you?”
“I promise to be at the cottage next Friday night. Why don’t you stay there this week. Keep the bed warm for me.”
“I’d love to, but my place needs a thorough housecleaning. I think I’d better go back to Cumberland. But I’ll be here when you arrive. Promise.”
Neither one of them wanted to talk about what was uppermost in their minds: the many long lonely weeks between September and May.
They had reached the place where Blue Water Point turns into Mallard Cove. Just as the last flare on the point guttered out, a full moon started to rise above the crest of the bluff across the lake.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Carol said.
“Oh, yes. Beautiful may not even do it justice.” Kevin wasn’t looking at the moon. His eyes were on Carol.